


Badlands

by pineapplebreads



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Blood and Gore, Consensual Underage Sex, Credence is 17, Explicit Sexual Content, Graves is 38, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder Mystery, Not Actually All That Scary, Sheriff Graves, Small Towns, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplebreads/pseuds/pineapplebreads
Summary: Years ago, a brutal murder shocked small town Wampus, TN and left a small boy orphaned. Years later, he returns to uncover the mystery of what really happened to his family. Percival Graves, always weak when it comes to Credence Barebone will do everything in his power to help, even as it all threatens to uncover the secrets he's trying to keep buried.





	1. WAMPUS, TN

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by the movie _We Need to Talk about Kevin_ (2011) and the book _Dark Places_ by Gillian Flynn.  
>  Title is from Halsey's album of the same name. Please give it a listen, especially the songs "Young God", "Colors", and "Coming Down" (some of my favorite Graves/ Credence songs).
> 
> Warning: this is a _dark_ story, you guys. It will make my other fic "Gods and Monsters" look like fluff in comparison from beginning to end.

Wampus is a small town riding the edge of the Kentucky-Tennessee border, an hour north of Nashville with a grand population of five hundred and three. It's mostly sprawling rectangles of green farmsteads far as the eye can see, populated with more livestock than people, interspersed with little blue jewel pits of water. The tiny heart of the town is a small square of businesses, not even a quarter mile long running on nostalgia and little else, too far from Nashville to be touched by song and outsiders.

It's a sleepy town, languid and lethargic like the fingers of wind combing through its lazily waving long grass, swaying softly in the vast fields far as the eye can see. It's a family town, everyone is family and everyone knows everyone else; they've raised each other and everyone is aunt or uncle or cousin by name if not by blood. It's the type of town where everyone knows everyone's business, where whispers are exchanged like currency, where secrets bloom into shouts.

So when something big happens, it's more than just whispers tipped from one ear to another. It becomes a static roar that rushes through the town until the sound of it is blisteringly loud. And everyone _knows_.


	2. GRAVES

(then)

Graves is careful in his stride, taking ginger steps to avoid contact with any detritus that might be evidence. He inches past the piles and piles of garbage and wine bottles cluttered across the room, cardboard boxes stacked haphazardously atop one another, past the filth strewn over what must've passed as a couch. He heads towards the kitchen, which looks no better than the living room, the linoleum cracked and stained, the stovetop encrusted in old oil and residue. Even without the iron stink of blood hanging thick in the air, the smell of neglect and negligence is unavoidable, heavy with the cloying sweet smell of rot.

Graves's lip curls as he surveys the house, tries his best to be professional and impassive but the disgust leaks through his self-imposed barriers despite his best efforts. He sighs heavily through his nose, breathes deep, past the stench of the house and heads up the stairs where he was told the worst of it is.

Graves is not a religious man but the scene before him makes him believe in a vengeful god. The walls of the front bedroom are painted in splatters of crimson, the floor swathed in burgundy. His boots make a sickening squelching noise as he walks across the room, the fibers of the carpet tacky and sticking slightly to his soles. The crack and flash of the scene photographer splashes the tableau into a stark split second brightness, grisly in its intensity.

Mary Lou Barebone and her daughters Chastity and Modesty are laying in puddles of their own blood and viscera, eyes white and blank. The walls behind them are stained red in arching parabolas, their lives splashed up upon the partitions for all to see, lifeblood painted like a mural stark crimson on white. Their lips are rouged with their own blood, a sharp juxtaposition to the waxy pallor of their skin. Their necks are split into wide smiles from ear to ear, grinning to show the severed lines of their tracheas, larynxes, and jugulars like so much pink fleshy teeth.

Graves is part revolted by, part fascinated by the grotesque tableau displayed before him. He leans down closer to look, breathes past the copper stench, taking note of the jagged line of the rough cuts as though hacked in violent haste with a serrated knife. A glint of silver in a red puddle catches his eye and he reaches past what was once Mary Lou Barebone with gloved fingers to snatch the knife from beneath her arm.

A carving knife, the scalloped edges dented and rusted from disuse and neglect now dripping with life. He bags it for the evidence team and keeps looking, wondering briefly about the belt in Mary Lou’s hand, still gripped tight in mortem. And then it clicks.

“Goldstein,” he calls to his deputy.

She looks up from where she’s examining the elder daughter, Chastity and turns wide sorrowful eyes towards him. Graves sighs internally. He’d thought they’ve gotten past this bleeding heart business. They’ll have to work more on strengthening resolve and conviction. And maybe a bit of training on traumatic situations. Tina Goldstein is too soft for the Sheriff's Department, really, but in a small town where no one actually wants the job, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Yes, Sherriff?”

“Don’t the Barebones have a boy?” Graves asks.

\---

(now)

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Graves says staring down at the boy on his doorstep.

Credence Barebone looks balefully up at him, shoulders hunched and shifting from foot to foot. His fingers are twitching nervously as he adjusts and readjusts the strap of the rucksack slung over his back. Despite the cowed curve of his spine, Credence is staring unflinchingly up at Graves with a hint of defiance in his gaze, eyes glinting with steel.

“Mr. Graves,” he says in greeting, the corner of his lip twitching up in a slight curl.

Graves nearly shuts the door in the boy’s face. He’s had a hell of a week already and the Barebone boy is the last thing he could be expecting for the start of his first weekend off in months. Shutting the door and turning the kid away would be the best solution, but clearly Graves is not a sane man because one look at Credence’s expression with his giant moon eyes and his hand is pushing his own front door wide to usher the kid inside out of the noonday heat.

He shoos the boy into the living room while he goes into the kitchen to rummage through his fridge. It’s empty save for half-full bottles of expired hot sauce, a carton of eggs and a twelve pack of Bud. Nothing for the boy so he’ll have to settle for tap water. He grabs a beer for himself and pads back to the living room where he finds Credence curled tight against the arm of the couch as though he’s afraid Graves is going to tear him off of it and throw him back out the door.

Graves sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. He has to remember to be patient with this one. The kid is delicate– no, that's not really the right word– he's sensitive, empathetic. Lord knows he’s been through so damn much already, much more than anyone at the age of, what would he be now– sixteen? seventeen? (he’s seventeen, don't pretend not to know) should’ve ever had to experience. Graves really should be kinder. He has to remember what happened afterwards was not the kid’s fault.

He takes a seat on the other side of the couch, wincing at the loud crack of his knees that echoes in the strained silence and hands Credence the glass of water as he twists the top off his own beer. The boy takes it tentatively, taking extra care to avoid grazing Graves’s fingers, forcefully hitting him in the chest with the memory of how much the kid hated being touched but he thought they'd gotten past that. Graves’s heart aches like it hasn’t ached in years. Right. Be kind.

“How’ve you been, Credence?” an easy start.

Credence hums into the glass and doesn’t reply until he’s drained the whole thing of water. Graves can’t really blame him. It’s sunny as fuck and hotter than Satan’s armpit outside, and going from the dust and dirt scuffed on his shoes, Graves can tell Credence had walked a long distance to find Graves. He can see a patch of red on the back of the boy’s otherwise pale neck that is most definitely going to deepen into a burn.

“Slightly okay sometimes,” Credence finally replies, starkly honest. Graves had nearly forgotten his propensity for always telling the truth and remembers to be thankful for it.

“Only slightly?”

Credence's mouth twists sardonically. He lifts one skinny shoulder into a shrug, his movement pulling at his too-small shirt. “You know how those foster homes can be.”

Graves hums. Unfortunately, he does know, a little too well. An old pang of regret gnaws at his belly, a feeling he's long gotten used to shoving away so he does it again, buries it deep and doesn't let it show.

“Speaking of which,” Graves begins slowly, “do your foster parents know you're here?”

Credence laughs mirthlessly, a loud jarring bark that sounds more like a howl of pain. “What do you think, Mr. Graves?” His dark eyes are challenging but they soften when Graves sighs.

“Why did I even ask,” Graves mutters. He pushes his hand through his hair again, making the top of it stand on end. “You know, I'm still the sheriff right? But for now I'll pretend I don't know that you ran away from home–”

“Foster home,” Credence interrupts.

“From your  _foster_ home, which last I recall is what? In Guthrie? That's half an hour away. How did you even _get_ here?”

Another mild shrug. “I've learned to be quite resourceful when I need to be, Mr. Graves.”

It hurts Graves to hear Credence say something like that, a million and three connotations running wild in his head, each worse than the last. _Resourceful_. He doesn't even want to know what the boy means, fears the answer he might get. He doesn't have the right anyways, to ask, to know. He'd given that up years ago.

He swallows hard around the lump lodged in his throat. “Why are you here, Credence?”

Credence doesn't look at him. He stares straight ahead as he turns the empty glass in his hands over and over, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip until it's cherry-pop red. He visibly gathers himself before he replies, still not looking at Graves. “ _He_ might be getting out.”

Five words and they're enough to make Graves's blood run cold. He takes a heavy swig from his beer to steel his own nerves. “No, he's not. I would've heard about it.”

Finally, Credence's eyes slide over to look at him. “He is. Miss Queenie called me last week. Said his lawyers are talking about new evidence. Might be enough for an appeal.”

“I would've known about any new evidence,” Graves insists, hating how weak his voice sounds. “I was the primary investigator on the case.”

“Until they took it from you because it got too personal,” Credence reminds him calmly as though his words aren't drudging up Graves's worst memories and twisting a knife in his gut in reminder. He must look sucker punched because Credence amends, “I'm sorry, Mr. Graves,” looking equally sorrowful.

Graves, having always known he was a weak, _weak_ man will always find himself forgiving the boy when he turns those doe eyes on him, no matter what he does or says.

“Nothing to apologize for, my boy,” he replies, voice thick on his tongue. He runs a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against his palm and the slight prickle centers him a little.

His head snaps up when he feels a smaller hand press tentatively against his own, turning to watch as Credence inches closer until they're sitting pressed thigh to thigh. He doesn't move, barely breathes as Credence runs shy fingers along his jaw. Graves hopes and prays he doesn't notice the pulse jack-hammering in his neck just inches away and how hot and flushed his skin feels. The boy tilts his head to the side, cherubic in his innocence.

“You haven't been taking care of yourself, Mr. Graves,” Credence says softly. He scratches lightly against Graves's days-old beard with a contemplative tilt to his lips. He then reaches up to finger-comb his mussed up hair back into place, smoothing down the sides of his undercut and raking thin fingers through the front. “You have so much grey hair now.”

Graves lets it continue until he feels as though the pit of his chest is burning up in flames and he has to reach up to grab the kid’s hands to stop him. He shifts the boy away as gently as he's able and gets up abruptly from the couch.

“Are you hungry?” He ignores how hurt Credence looks, deflecting– his specialty. “I'll go grab some food from the store. I don't really have anything at home. I usually just grab something on the way home from the station after my shift so I don't really keep any fresh food in the house. I forget about it most times and it goes bad. Or do you want a pizza? Take out? Fast food?”

Credence watches impassively from the couch as he rambles and stalks the length of the room, doesn't say anything until Graves finishes speaking.

“I miss your cooking,” he finally says.

It's Graves's turn to laugh. “You mean when I didn't burn it.”

Credence smiles slightly, genuine and fond. “I'll help you this time. One of my learned resources.”

Graves sucks in a sharp breath and doesn't say anything, nods. He reaches for his keys on the coffee table and shoves them roughly into his pocket, watching warily as Credence rises from his seat.

“I want to go with you,” Credence explains.

Graves doesn't say how he really shouldn't. Jones, the grocer will see. Jill, the clerk will see. Anyone at the store will see. And they'll talk. Five years is not long enough to forget. Within the hour, everyone in town will know that Credence Barebone is back, poor boy with the dead family, what's he doing here, didn't he leave town, wasn't he given away to strangers when the Graveses got divorced and couldn't keep him?

Graves agrees anyways, partly out of fear that Credence might disappear if he leaves him alone, before Graves can even find out why the boy hitchhiked/ walked/ ran/ whatever for thirty miles to come back to him. He agrees against his better judgement.

 _Weak man_. Always so very weak when it comes to Credence.

\---

(then)

Winter nights in Wampus are frigid, oftentimes dipping into the single digits. On the night of the Barebone murders, it is especially cold and dark, the moon a cruel slice hanging low in the sky. The snow had stopped earlier in the day, leaving behind an icy white blanket that reflects the dim moonlight, stretching across the paltry two acres of the Barebones’s land.

Graves’s officers spread out to search, each of them thrumming with anticipation and dread. One of them heads towards the west, to the left of the house to search the field there, another to the east, to search the old unused barn on the edge of the Barbones’s property. Another circles the house to the front to search the road. Graves takes the back with the unkempt yard that edges into a field of tall grass and beyond that, a forest.

Graves looks carefully across the ground, depending on his flashlight to show the way, gun steady beneath the beam, just in case. A little beyond the yard of the house, he notices two sets of footprints in the snow, the imprints distinct from those of his officers. One large and heavy, that of a man wearing heavy work boots winding around the house and then out past the yard towards the forest behind the property. They're half covered with fresh snow, must've been left in the ground before the snow had stopped falling. He skirts around them carefully, makes a mental note to have someone from forensics examine and photograph the prints. The second set is small, light against the snow, barely making an indent at all, but the steps are red, stained with blood.  

He follows the set of smaller prints, follows the red marks past the shed behind the house and into the field of skeleton stalks of tall grass long dead and buried in frost. The red disappears after a while, leaving behind only the indents and Graves quickens his steps.

He doesn't know if he's chasing a dead body or a live boy but he knows he must hurry. If the boy is alive, he needs to get to him _now_ , find him and take him out of the dangerously low temperatures and the snow, whisk him away from the bloodbath that was once his home. If he’s dead, well, they would get to that.

“Credence!” Graves yells, hoping against hope that the boy _is_ alive and can hear him, can answer. He turns in circles in the grass field, heart pounding in his chest as his hands grow numb in the cold. His flashlight swings in a wide arc, throwing erratic patches of land into stark relief. Rocks, grass, weeds, dirt, still no Credence Barebone.

Graves runs further into the fields, heart pounding with his footsteps until he's at the end of the field and he's facing a thick line of trees that looms darkly over him. Hope stutters in his chest, ensnarled in his throat until he feels as though he's choking and he's frantic now, combing through trees and bushes for any sign of the light steps.

The footsteps are gone now, there's nothing blemishing the virgin snow in the forest but Graves trudges on, deeper into the trees that reach down towards him with long branches that curl like gnarled fingers. The snow begins to disappear until there is no snow on the ground at all, only mulch where the canopy of leaves above is so thick, the weather couldn’t penetrate through it. It could've been minutes, it could've been hours of searching, Graves no longer knows. He has walked in concentric paths until his feet are as numb as his fingers and nose and the light of his flashlight is a flickering pellucid beam.

After what feels like a lifetime in the dark wood, he finally hears a noise that sounds like a snuffle and he rushes towards it with his fingers gripped tight around his gun, praying that it's the Barebone boy.

It's pitch black between the trees, an oppressive darkness that feels tangible in its thickness. Soon, Graves's entire world narrows down to the sound of his footsteps, the small beam of his flashlight and the urgency of finding Credence.

Graves finds the boy tucked beneath the roots of an enormous oak, wild eyed and incoherent, his naked little body covered in blood. His skin beneath the crimson is paper white and his lips are blue. Graves doesn't even think about the evidence he might be destroying as he frantically digs the boy out from the dirt with his bare hands, flashlight clenched between his teeth.

Credence Barebone is shaking like a leaf as he emerges from the earth, dirty and bloody. His coltish legs can barely hold his own weight and he crumples as Graves hurriedly removes his own coat and wraps it around the boy, bundling him up in the thick wool.

Graves is nearly weak with relief, doesn't even feel the cold anymore. The Barebone boy is _alive_ , a miracle birthed from this nightmare.

Goldstein screams softly when Graves emerges from the woods with the boy in his arms and immediately shouts for a paramedic. They're swarmed by other officers and EMT, and it takes several tries for Graves to unclench his fingers enough for them to take the kid from him.

There's a shock blanket thrown over Graves as he sits heavily on the bumper of an ambulance and a cup of hot coffee pressed into his hands. He barely notices any of that, his eyes are trained on Credence as the first responders whisk him away. All he can think as he watches is, _thank God thank God thank God._


	3. CREDENCE

(then)

The first question they ask him when he wakes in a big white room he doesn’t recognize is his name.

The lady asking looks kindly, dressed in green scrubs with dinosaurs all over it and a stethoscope draped around her neck. She's a nurse, Credence knows. But she's a stranger and Ma has always taught him not to talk to strangers. Credence has to be good, has to listen to Ma, so he shakes his head and pinches his lips closed, not a word.

“Do you know where you are?” the nurse tries.

Credence can guess he's in some kind of hospital, he's not stupid, but he's not sure why he's there. He feels fine for the most part, except for the pain on his back and the weird pinched feeling he has in his wrist where clear tubes are running into the veins beneath his skin. He still doesn't say anything.

“Do you remember what happened?”

What happened? Did something happen?

The last thing Credence remembers is dinner with Ma and his sisters. And then Mr. Grindelwald had come over. He's the new man his Ma’s currently seeing but Credence doesn't expect him to last long. There's a mean streak in the man that Credence can see and he doesn't like it. He hopes Ma sees it soon too.

But that's not right. He doesn't remember anything after dinner. He only remembers darkness and night and being so very, very cold, his teeth are chattering and knocking against each other until his head hurts from the clamor in his mouth. That's a new word he learned from school last week. Clamor. Loud noises.

He remembers nothing after being cold until something warm and scratchy wraps around him and he's being lifted and he feels like he's floating. A man with dark hair and dark eyes, wide in panic but kind. A voice, low and deep telling him, “stay with me here, kid, come on, stay awake.” And that's the _actual_ last thing he remembers.

Credence shakes his head, looking directly at the nurse. He doesn't say anything.

“How do you feel? On a scale from one to ten, can you tell me how much it hurts?”

Credence thinks for a moment, reassessing his pain. He raises two fingers. It's nothing compared to when Ma punishes him.

“Okay, very good. I'm going to ask Sheriff Graves to come in and he'll explain to you what's going on, okay?”

Credence nods hesitantly with furrowed brows, slightly confused. Why would the sheriff know or care why he's in the hospital? Where's Ma? Where are his sisters? Shouldn't they be the ones to explain?

The nurse returns with a tall broad man behind her. He's dressed in uniform black but his hat is in his hands and he looks uncomfortable. He's frowning and running restless fingers through his dark hair, which is standing on end from all of his fiddling. Ma would've slapped Credence's hand for all of that fidgeting. When the man looks up, he looks very tired and weary and Credence _remembers_ him.

He was the one who had saved him, pulled him out from that cold dark place where he felt like he was surely going to die. The man had felt warm and strong and safe but now in the daylight, he looks concerned and ragged and uncertain. He drags a chair over to sit by Credence's bed.

“How you holding up, kid?” he asks, voice sounding rough like gravel.

Credence shrugs. A lift of a bony shoulder and weighs his options about talking to this man. Sheriff Graves. Technically he's not a stranger, Credence thinks. He did help Credence and that's as good as a meeting, right? Maybe he wouldn't get into too much trouble for talking to him.

“Pain level two,” Credence finally says, his own voice feeling like sandpaper in his throat and sounding twice as rough, as though he hasn't used it in a long time.

The sheriff blinks in surprise. “That's very good. Do you remember your name?”

Credence sniffs, affronted. “Of course I do,” he replies primly. “Why wouldn't I? My name is Credence Barebone.”

The sheriff smiles lopsidedly. Credence wants to push his fingers against the corner of man’s mouth and tilt the other side up too into a full smile, but that would be inappropriate. “Yes, Credence Barebone,” Sheriff Graves says. “I'm Sheriff Graves. You can just call me Graves. Do you remember what happened?”

Credence wracks his brain for a moment, but there's still a weird blank space in between dinnertime with his family and waking from the cold dark and then nothing after that, so he shakes his head. “Not really, Mr. Graves. Why am I in the hospital? I'm not really hurt. There must've been some kind of mistake. I don't think I need to be here. Can you please call my Ma for me?”

Credence watches as Mr. Graves takes a deep shuddering breath, as though bracing himself for whatever is to come. It makes Credence's stomach clench hard in dreadful anticipation. Something has happened. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. Credence tries to remember but nothing is connecting.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, dark eyes haunted and brimming with sadness. “Your family— your mother and sisters— they— _Jesus Christ_ , I’m so sorry, kid, _fuck_ , this is hard. Sorry, didn’t mean to swear. But. They, uh. Your family. They've been murdered.”

\---

(now)

Credence has almost forgotten what a shit town Wampus is, a tiny speck on the map in the middle of nowhere, full of judgemental assholes and cowards too afraid to expand their worldviews. He grins and bares his teeth through grocery shopping with Mr. Graves, grimacing at the busybodies who approach them with patented gasps of, “Credence Barebone? Is that really you?”

He doesn't breathe freely until he's back in the monstrous gas-guzzling machine that is Mr. Graves's car and can lean his head back against the seat, close his eyes. He leaves Mr. Graves to pack the groceries in the back, too overwhelmed with the tens of times he had to talk to the townies to help. He's starting to think coming back is a Very Bad Idea™. But then he tilts his head over, watches as Mr. Graves climbs into the driver's seat and decides, no it's the best idea he's ever had, despite how much it hurts to be back. Pain level nine.

Credence had missed Mr. Graves, all the time, a constant ache that makes him melancholic and empty. He's all Credence can think about most days in his hovel of a foster home, crowded and loud and dirty and full of other little assholes younger and needier than him. He's thought long about coming back to Wampus, about forcing Mr. Graves to realize he needs Credence too. They're so tightly intertwined with each other, it was stupid for him to send Credence away in the first place. But that's for later.

For now, he has other things to worry about, like the possibility of _him_ getting out. Even now, Credence has a hard time thinking about his name. Grindelwald. What a nasty name for a nasty man. The name of the man who ruined Credence's life, who deserves to rot in jail forever, who should be dead.

Mr. Graves must sense his thoughts and his anger because a large hand closes around Credence's knee, rubbing gently. He drops his own hand on top to keep it there, spends the drive back marveling at how small his fingers look compared to Mr. Graves's and the contrast of his own pallid white skin against Mr. Graves's warm tan to keep the other thoughts away.

Credence has calmed considerably by the time they get home. _Home_. Home is such a foreign concept for Credence, especially when he doesn't feel as though he has one, but Mr. Graves's house feels a lot like what a home should be, spartan and unkempt as it is. Credence has memories here, precious ones and painful ones, but nevertheless, he still wants to stay, even if it is in shitty Wampus.

He kicks off his shoes at the entryway, walks through the house barefoot, luxuriating in the feeling of the sun warmed wood beneath his feet. Runs his hands along the haphazard stacks of books and magazines and records Mr. Graves hoards. Lets the familiar cream walls bring back happier times until Mr. Graves calls him into the kitchen to help.

Mr. Graves's cooking is just as bad as he remembers but he wasn't lying when he said he missed it. Mostly he just misses spending time in the kitchen with Mr. Graves, when they're cooking side by side, and Credence is actually able to help properly now, unlike _before_ when he wasn't even allowed to touch the stove.

They end up making shepherd’s pie, one of the only dishes Mr. Graves actually knows how to make. The ground lamb ends up being too salty and the mashed potatoes too bland and slightly burnt but Credence eats it all anyways. It's not so bad when he swirls the bland potatoes with the salty meat. It's the best meal he's had in a long time.

“I suppose you're not leaving anytime soon, are you?” Mr. Graves asks as they're sharing a pint of ice cream for dessert on the couch. The TV is flickering in the background, tuned to a news channel with the sound on mute as they sit together in the cozy dark, not paying it any attention.

Credence curls as close as he dares, pressed tight to Mr. Graves's side and looks up through his lashes, tries for innocent. He pretends not to notice the way Mr. Graves watches his lips as he curls his tongue over the spoon, licks at the ice cream with small kitten laps.

“If you don't mind,” he says casually, proud of himself for sounding nonchalant.

“You never told me why you're here,” Mr. Graves says, sliding his gaze away from Credence's face.

Credence hums, helping himself to another spoonful from the carton. “I need your help.”

“With what, my boy?”

Credence suppresses the shiver that races down his spine at the old endearment, his face feeling warm. He always did enjoy that one, maybe a little bit too much. He swallows hard and forces himself to focus back on the matter at hand.

“Please promise you won't be mad at me,” he says, leaning away a little to look up at Mr. Graves. He watches the blue light of the TV screen flicker across the sharp planes of Mr. Graves's face for a little bit, feeling slightly entranced.

“Why would I be mad at you?” Mr. Graves's voice cuts through his reverie. His thick brows furrow together in confusion and Credence is momentarily distracted by the temptation to reach up and soothe the frown away with his thumb, ghost his fingers over the new lines he's gained since Credence last saw him. He sits on his hands to resist the urge.

“Because I need to talk to Sera,” Credence says softly, turning away, overwhelmed. He feels the sharp intake of breath beside him and almost regrets his request.

“I don't have her contact information anymore, Credence,” Mr. Graves says quietly after a long pause. Their voices are both hushed as though talking about the subject any louder would be a violation of an agreement made long ago. “And why do you need to talk to her?”

Credence chews on his lip and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, tries to word his request as logically as possible, moreso to make Mr. Graves feel better about it than to actually make him acquiesce to his entreaty.

“I know you don't keep in touch anymore but I might, um, have found her address,” Credence says, still not looking at him. “I was hoping we could go see her.” He digs at the half melted carton of ice cream for a little while longer before dropping his spoon into the container, unable to take another bite.

Mr. Graves sucks in a sharp breath. “You're gonna have to tell me why, Credence. I don't see how Sera has anything to do with you anymore.”

“I just want to know what's happening with me.”

“What exactly do you mean by that? What's happening with you?”

His body suddenly feeling too hot and high-strung on pent up energy, Credence all but leaps out of his seat to pace in front of the couch. After two laps around the small coffee table, he almost regrets leaving the warmth of Mr. Graves's side but he's still compelled to move, to release the adrenaline building inside of him.

“I've been having these,” he struggles for the right word, “— blackouts lately. Sometimes, I would just wake up somewhere completely different from where I remember sleeping. And I have no idea what happened. It's so— so frustrating! And I remember Sera mentioning that I did that before, before um— before everything went to shit.” Before she hated him and went to CPS behind Mr. Graves’s back, Credence doesn’t say. “I think that's why I can't remember. What happened _that_ night. And I need to know what happened. I feel like this might be my chance. To know. So I can keep _him_ locked up if he manages to dig up new evidence to appeal. So I can finally give my statement and not— ugh! Not be so useless anymore.” Credence knows he's rambling and his words are disjointed, likely not making any sense but he's having a hard time stringing coherent thoughts together.

Mr. Graves is staring at him with a perplexed and worried expression. Unable to bear being the focus of such a look, Credence impulsively walks over to stand in front of him and slides his arms around Mr. Graves's shoulders. He buries his face in his neck, not wanting to make eye contact anymore, overwhelmed by the fear and anxiety and anticipation running circles in his mind.

“Percy, _please_ ,” Credence mumbles into Mr. Graves's skin. He knows he's playing dirty, using the old nickname he once called Mr. Graves. He'd always been proud of the fact _then_ that he was the only one who ever got to call Mr. Graves Percy. Even Sera didn't call him that. She'd called him Percival.

Leaning back slightly to look at Mr. Graves's expression now, he knows he shouldn't have done it even when Credence feels him shudder in his arms. He buries his face back into the crook of Mr. Graves's neck as large hands come up to grip tight at the fabric between his shoulders.

Mr. Graves holds him for a long moment, not saying a word until he finally moves away and gently pushes Credence back. His face is open and earnest when he says, “you know I would do anything for you, Credence, and that's never changed. But I need you to understand first that your inability to testify is _not_ your fault. It's not uncommon for the brain to black out entire scenarios where it's too traumatic to remember.”

“I know that,” Credence replies, feeling stubborn and difficult. “But Percy,” there he goes, breaking Mr. Graves's heart all over again for his own selfishness, “I _need_ to remember. This is important to me. Afterwards, I'll go back to Guthrie myself and I won't bother you anymore, I promise.”

Mr. Graves takes a long time to reply, hanging his head between his shoulders, not looking at Credence. Finally his head tilts up and Credence almost takes back his request at seeing the sadness in Mr. Graves's eyes but he bites his lips. He's gone this far already.

“Alright,” Mr. Graves says, voice gravel-rough. “Anything for you, my boy.”

Credence crawls into Mr. Graves lap and wraps his arms around his neck again, leaning in close. Mr. Graves stiffens beneath him but Credence runs his hands through Mr. Graves hair and over his shoulders until he relaxes inch by inch. He nuzzles closer to breathe in the familiar scent of Mr. Graves, all oak musk and ozone, allows it to calm him as he settles. He knows he's far too old for this kind of affection, it's highly inappropriate but Credence cannot help himself, clamps his knees around Mr. Graves's waist and whines until Mr. Graves brings his hands up to cradle his hips. He tucks his face against Mr. Graves's neck and closes his eyes, savoring the moment, gratified for the touch after so long.

“Thank you,” Credence whispers, careful of their shared quiet.

They sit like that in silence for a long time, until Credence jolts awake, bleary eyed and disoriented, chasing the taste of a familiar nightmare from his mouth. He looks around for the time, unsure if he had fallen asleep for minutes or hours to find the clock above the TV ticking towards three am. The news is still playing silently on the screen, shading everything in flickers of white and blue. Mr. Graves is sprawled out beneath him, head tilted against the sofa back, still asleep despite Credence's movements.

Credence shifts to move off of Mr. Graves's lap when he wakes with a groan and his hand tightening on Credence's leg.

“You should go to bed, Mr. Graves,” Credence says softly.

Mr. Graves raises his other hand to rub against his eyes, staring up at Credence as though he's surprised he's still there. “What time is it?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“It is two fifty-seven in the morning.”

Mr. Graves groans again and moves Credence gently off his lap. He gets up from the couch and offers Credence a hand up. “You can take my bed for tonight,” he says. “I'll clear up the spare room tomorrow, but you can take my room for now.”

Credence shakes his head. “Where will you sleep?”

“I'll take the couch.”

“No,” Credence replies stubbornly.

A corner of Mr. Graves's mouth tilts up on a lopsided smile. “I'll survive one night, Credence. I'm not _that_ old.”

“At least—” Credence cuts himself off with a gulp. Instead, he takes Mr. Graves's hand and leads them both towards the direction of the bedroom he remembers. “I-I still have nightmares. Even now. Please, stay with me until I fall asleep at least.”

Credence can see Mr. Graves weighing the options, the muscle in his jaw fluttering before he finally sighs. “Okay, my boy,” he says and lets Credence pull them both into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the great response to this fic so far!  
> Please come visit me on tumblr (pineapplebread.tumblr.com)


	4. GRAVES

(now)

It's long been habit for Graves to wake up at the crack of dawn so it's a surprise when he's awoken by the bright noonday sun streaming through his window. He groans as he glances at the bedside clock: eleven thirty-six. There goes the day.

He rolls over to be met with another surprise. Credence is still in his bed and looking like sin itself with his cherubic face lax in sleep, petal red lips slightly parted and dark hair in tousled waves fanned over the spare pillow.

Credence in his bed should not be as jarring as it happens to be; he used to crawl into bed with them all the time, before, when he had his nightmares. But that was a while ago, and seeing Credence now is different, rankling in a way that threatens Graves's control.

It's not so much that Graves forgot the day before, but the whole thing was so surreal, he was almost convinced it had all been a dream by the time he went to sleep. And now awake, reality comes crashing back down like a heavy yoke around his shoulders and he groans internally when he remembers what he had promised Credence in his weakness. But it's too fucking early, despite the actual time, to deal with that. He needs some fucking coffee. And a shower. He's still in yesterday's clothes.

Graves swings out of bed and leans back down to tuck the blankets around Credence to ward against the air conditioned chill. The boy immediately curls tighter into himself like an overlarge cat, snuffling into the pillow and warm spot Graves just vacated. Heart in his throat, Graves leaves the room before he does something stupid.

Graves puts the coffee on while he showers and turns the water as cold as he can stand it. Credence is sitting up in bed when he comes out of the bathroom, naked and dripping wet with only a towel around his waist. Habits die hard when he's lived alone for so long and Graves is a stubborn mule dead set on habits. He hadn't thought to bring clothes into the shower with him and now he regrets it as Credence's stare burns a hole in his back while he rummages through his closet for a clean shirt and sweatpants.

“‘Morning. Shower is free,” Graves manages to mutter as he pulls a shirt over his head and turns around for some semblance of decency as he pulls pants on too. He doesn't miss the way Credence swallows and flushes and he has to walk quickly out of the room, unable to stand the boy’s scrutiny.

Credence takes a suspiciously long time in the bathroom but Graves doesn't say anything when he walks into the kitchen, dressed in another one of his too-small shirts that flashes slivers of bare hip when he walks. Graves silently passes him a plate of slightly watery eggs and returns to his coffee.

“So,” Credence says.

“So,” Graves repeats, still not able to look directly at him, not when Credence somehow manages to make eating eggs look pornographic but that's probably just all in his own sick head. But really, is it necessary to _lick_ the fucking fork like that? It's just eggs.

He doesn't really want to look at Credence, not in the bright beam of light that streams in from the kitchen windows. It's startling to see Credence this way, to see his boy after the stretch of years that felt like forever. To see him with definition in his jaw and a feline slant to his dark eyes, free of baby fat and the round innocent wide stare he used to have. To see him _grown up_. It's a strange thought, hurtful and elating at the same time.

“I know you're busy,” Credence says, putting his fork down, “but I think it would be best for everyone to just get everything over with. Can we go see Sera today?”

Every time Credence says her name, Graves feels it like a knife twisting in his heart. Fucking pathetic, that he's not over everything after five years.

“I think I should call your foster parents first,” Graves says sternly, deflecting. He pries his hands from the death grip he has on the edge of the table, tries to be nonchalant and authoritative. He's the fucking adult here.

Credence barks a laugh. “They won't care. I only have a few months until I'm supposed to be out of their house anyways. They're probably relieved that I left early. One less mouth to feed.”

Graves is mildly horrified but also slightly relieved that he wouldn't have to speak to the Jenkins. They were very unpleasant people from what he could remember the last time he spoke to them over three years ago. Being unable to get Credence away from them had always been one of his biggest regrets. Credence is here now, and despite the boy's earlier promise to be good and return to his foster home, Graves really doesn't want him to, but it would be the right thing to do. They'll get to that later.

“How did you find her?” Graves asks, still deflecting.

Credence shrugs. Graves isn't sure if it's a teenager thing, or a Credence thing, but shrugging seems to be a common answer with the boy. And every time he shrugs, the tiny shirt shows more of his hipbone and it makes Graves want to punch things.

“She's not that hard to find,” Credence says, seemingly oblivious. “She's in Nashville and anyone with internet access and a bit of diligence can find her. Her name isn't exactly a common one”

“Oh,” Graves says, hoping that means Sera is doing well for herself. He could've known for himself if he hadn't been too much of a coward to even google her name in all these years.

“Did you know there are forums and groups dedicated to _him_?” Credence suddenly says. Graves nearly reels from the abrupt change of subject, the gears of his brain struggling to keep up.

“What?”

“There are these— support groups. Supporters, I guess. For him. They're kind of divided. Half of them praise him for what he did, thinking it's some glorified— thing.” Credence's face twists in disgust and fury as he continues, “and the other half think he's innocent. They say the evidence doesn't add up. That there's too much blank space in the reports that were released to the public and they think there must've been something else going on that night.”

Graves pauses, sets his coffee down before he does something ridiculous, like throwing it against the wall. “There are all sorts of crazies in the world, Credence. They love to congregate on the internet.”

“There's a group called Free Grindelwald that's working on gathering evidence for his appeal. Maybe that's why they're bringing it up now. Maybe they really did find something.”

Graves sighs, rolling his eyes. “Don't pay them any attention, kid. People like to play sleuths but it's not so easy to gather new evidence from a case five years solved. Don't worry about them.”

Credence hums thoughtfully, seemingly dropping the subject, but his brow still furrowed in vexation. Graves wants to do something else stupid, like hold the kid or something. He's thankfully saved from his own dumb impulses when Credence abruptly slides out of his chair and disappears into the living room. Graves can hear him rummaging for something, probably from his rucksack and he returns moments later carrying a beaten up laptop with skater symbols and weed stickers all over the cover.

“Are you—” Graves isn't even sure he wants to know, staring hard at a decal of a five pronged leaf.

Credence follows his gaze and laughs. “Oh, that, no. This isn't mine.”

“Then where did you— Did you _steal_ that?”

“Um. I think ‘borrowed’ sounds nicer. I borrowed this from a horrible kid at school. Borrowed indefinitely. Resourceful, see?”

Graves groans, pressing his fingers into his eyes. _Fucking hell._ “ _Credence_. Why— you know I'm a cop, right?”

Credence is all wide-eyed mock innocence when Graves looks up. “Are you going to arrest me, Mr. Graves? Are you going to handcuff me and lock me up ‘cause I've been such a bad boy?” His lips are curled up in the corners in a feline smirk. Graves should've slammed the door shut and left him out on the steps, but he knows he could never have done that, not to Credence. This kid is going to be the fucking death of him.

_Jesus, Lord, please give him strength._

Graves can't even bring himself to reply. Like a coward, he turns abruptly to gather their dishes and starts washing them at the sink so he wouldn't have to look at Credence anymore. Grown-up Credence is turning out to be Very Bad for Graves's health. Gone is the introverted innocent boy Graves once knew and he can only imagine Credence would continue to test his limits if the day before and _this_ is anything to go by.

“Just get on with it,” he grunts, scrubbing viciously at a spot of egg stuck on one of the plates.

“Okay,” Credence says, sounding contrite, voice soft and serious. “Sera lives in Nashville now and she's a partner at a very prestigious law firm there. She's also affiliated with the non-profit Malpractice Actions Corps of the USA; it provides pro-bono services to veterans and victims of medical malpractice who can't afford lawyers.” His fingers are flying over the keyboard, the sound of clacking keys filling the room. “I also found her home address.”

Graves feels a selfish pang of pain frisson through his heart at hearing everything Sera is now doing. It's everything she's ever wanted to do, and everything she couldn't do when he was holding her back. He should be happy for her, and he tries very hard to be, but the feeling is halfhearted at best after everything that's happened.

Dishes now done, Graves has no excuse to still not look at Credence. He's still sitting at the table, but he's staring up from the laptop screen, eyes so soft and sympathetic, Graves nearly makes another excuse to look away again. But he doesn't because it's not fair to either of them; he knows Credence is hurting just as much as he is, probably even more, and he's being very selfish and pusillanimous.

“Since you found her business, can’t we just call her there? Tomorrow, on Monday?” _Coward_.

Credence hums a little, biting at his lip again. It’s turning out to be a very distracting habit. “What do you think the chances are of her not hanging up immediately on either of us?”

Graves sighs. “Fuckin’ hell, kid. All I wanted was to spend my weekend in sweatpants, watch TV, and not move,” he says, softening his words with a wry twist of his lips. Time to buck the fuck up. “Just let me get changed and we can go.”

\---

(then)

They were the talk of the town when they first got together. The whispers ranged from “ooh, I've always known, how nice to see young love,” to “it's about time with those two! You owe me twenty dollars, Carl.” Despite the swath of whispers amongst the nosy older generation of their new relationship, peers their age were none too impressed.

“When were you gonna tell us, Graves?” Mendelson had asked teasingly, digging an elbow into his ribs.

“It's none of your fucking business,” Graves had replied, only pretending to be angry because he was so _happy_ , he couldn't even begrudge his friends their jokes. “You're lucky I'm telling you assholes at all.”

“We could've guessed anyways,” Abernathy, the freshman kid who kept hanging around them was quick to add. He had a funny look on his face as he said, “we could all see the way you two looked at each other.”

“Fuck off, Abernathy,” Graves had muttered.

“So. Seraphina Picquery, eh?” Richards had asked with a huge grin.

“Yeah, Seraphina Picquery,” Graves had echoed, knowing he sounded like an idiot but he couldn't help it. Seraphina Picquery, the smartest and most beautiful girl of their year. Of all the people who had asked her out, Sera had turned them all down one by one, but had said yes to _him_. He couldn't keep the awed pride from his voice even if he had tried.

They had started dating at the end of their senior year and were subsequently Homecoming king and queen of Wampus High. They were inseparable that summer, spending all their time together as everyone in town looked on with indulgent smiles.

It was hard to go their separate ways that September when the end of summer rolled over into the beginnings of autumn. Graves was headed to Nashville to start his training at the police academy there and Seraphina to the University of Michigan to start her undergrad degree in pre-law.

“Maybe we should just— take a break for now. See how things go first. Being so far apart will be hard, Percival. We shouldn't tie each other down already,” Sera had said at the end of August, and it nearly broke Graves's fucking heart.

“No,” he'd said mulishly. “We’ll write. We’ll call. I'll come visit you every opportunity I can. I want to make this work, Sera. I love you.” He knew he had sounded pathetic, begging.

She had been silent a long time before nodding, barely looking at him. He should've known then, when she couldn't say those three words back.

Through stubborn diligence and a lot of eight hour drives to Ann Arbor, and occasionally meeting in the middle in shitty motels throughout Indiana and Ohio, they somehow made it work, because Graves had _wanted_ it to work, had wanted it like he'd never wanted anything else. Had thought he'd wanted it for the rest of his life.

The day after Graves graduated from the academy, he drove the five hundred miles to see Sera with a ring in his pocket and his heart in his throat. When she had hesitated as he kneeled in the small space of her dorm room, he should've known again, that they were doomed from the start. But his desperation to keep their relationship squashed the rebellious voice of his doubts.

It took Sera two days to think about his proposal but she finally accepted before he left that Sunday night. Instead of feeling elated like he'd expected, Graves spent the long drive home feeling empty and hollow.

They married the summer after Sera graduated from UMich and it was a quick affair held in Graves's parents backyard. They were surrounded by their friends and families and Sera was so fucking gorgeous in her simple flowing dress, dark skin effulgent against white chiffon. Graves felt so goddamn lucky to be able to hold Sera in his arms and call her his _wife_.

A month after they got married and barely settled into the house Graves's parents bought them, Sera had to leave again, off to law school in Nashville this time. She'd wanted to go to the east coast, Graves knew. She'd been accepted to NYU and Cornell, but they simply couldn't afford it, not after the cost of the wedding, small as it was and the expenses of settling into their new home, buying a new car. So Sera had to settle and Graves had always known it rankled, didn't sit well with her but he had always foolishly thought they could get past that in due time because they had each other.

While she commuted from Nashville for her law courses, Graves settled into his new job at the sheriff’s office as a deputy and quickly rose through the ranks in the matter of a handful of years. When the old sheriff retired, Graves's name was the only one he put in to nominate as his replacement and by the age of thirty, Graves was the sheriff of Wampus, protector of five hundred and three residents.

After graduating and earning her law degree, Sera set up a small office in the small town square with a small sign that read Seraphina Picquery-Graves, Esq. Graves knew she was bored, felt stuck in such a small town where there wasn't much need for a lawyer beyond a few small disputes over land, last testaments, and the occasional divorce. He'd always known she wanted more, wanted to do more, have more, _be_ more, had eventually wanted to go into politics but that had no place in Wampus. Foolishly and stubbornly, Graves had believed they could make it work despite all that.

It did work, for nearly ten years. It wasn't the most passionate of marriages but they made it work. After a while, the only thing they fought about anymore was the matter of having children. Sera didn't want any, but Graves did, had wanted a big family, and they could never agree.

Graves started drinking and eventually backed off, respecting her wishes and knowing deep down, Sera would only resent any children they had, another thing to tie her down to Wampus. And when Graves wasn't lying to himself, honest at the bottom of a bottle like he wasn't when he was sober, he knew he was tying Sera down, shackling her to a tiny town where she barely had the room to turn, much less stretch to her full potential and ambition.

Eventually the guilt ate at Graves, left him a shell of his former self until all he knew how to do was to bury himself at work so he wouldn't have to deal with Sera’s lack of it and her subsequent misery. When he wasn't working, he spent long hours alone in the garage, tinkering with engines and swigging from endless bottles of beer, whiskey, gin. Sera couldn't care less, left him to his own devices and buried her nose in fantasy novels and attended book clubs and Tupperware parties Graves knew she hated.

They pulled their shit together enough in public to fool everyone else to their combined misery. They made pretend, put on happy faces, went on obligatory monthly dates like clockwork. To any outsider looking in, they were the perfect couple, the town sheriff and his lawyer wife, aren't they just gorgeous together, Rick? Did you know, Laura, they were highschool sweethearts? Isn't that romantic?

They were fine. On the outside.

And then Credence comes into their lives, and everything falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always for the terrific response!  
> Come chat with me on tumblr (pineapplebread.tumblr.com)


End file.
